Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation
by TheApprehensiveArtist
Summary: After a case goes seriously awry, Sherlock is faced with the reality that his only friend might not make it through this one. This is a work-in-progress story filled with drama and angst.
1. The Hit

He hated admitting that he was human. He hated that he didn't anticipate this happening. This night had gone completely wrong.

They had been overwhelmed with cases. He took on more than he could manage, throwing himself into his work. That night, Sherlock had gone undercover for one of his cases while John went to gather information from a family whose son had suspiciously and suddenly died.

Sherlock's cover was blown.

The drug dealers who discovered Sherlock's true identity sent out a hit on John Watson after Sherlock managed to escape from their grasp. They knew that John was Sherlock's weak spot. It seemed like EVERYONE knew that John was Sherlock's weak spot. It drove Sherlock mad to know that criminals could easily manipulate him – even with Moriarty long gone, it's like the mad man told everyone he could about how _easy_ it was to take down the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock believed that if anything happened to John, it would probably be Sherlock's fault. He realized it probably made him a bit protective, but he couldn't live with himself if anything happened to John. Bit he supposed that was the whole point.

None of that mattered now.

Sherlock had tried to get to John as fast as he could to warn him. He cursed at the unfortunate cabbie that picked him up that night. He had tried calling and texting John on his mobile, however John hadn't responded.

He went to the house where John was supposed to be interviewing the family. The door's lock had been broken and there was a light on in the kitchen. Sherlock rushed in. Ms. Richards, the mother of the boy who had died, was lying dead in the kitchen, having suffered a blow to the head probably causing a subdural hematoma. He continued checking each room. He went up the stairs and he realized he wasn't alone when he ran into a man, presumably the hit man as he was walking in the darkened upstairs hallway. Sherlock was overcome with a rage he'd never felt before. He quickly disarmed the man of his gun, repeatedly kicking and punching the man until he lay unconscious on the floor. It seemed to him that the lessons he'd learned while dismantling Moriarty's network were good for something after all.

He burst into the dark bedroom and flipped the light switch. There he was, lying on the floor, unconscious.

"John!" shouted Sherlock.

"John, can you hear me?"

John didn't move.

Sherlock placed his ear on John's chest to listen for anything, a breath or heartbeat. But it was silent. His eyes were roving over John's body, looking for trauma or injury of some sort, but he couldn't see any blood or other obvious signs of injury. He checked his pulse as well and immediately started performing CPR.

His thoughts raced.

This can't be happening, this can't be happening….

 _CPR – Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation._

Place hands one over the other on the patient's chest, and press 30 times to move precious, oxygenated blood out of the patient's heart and to their vital organs.

Check that they are breathing… John most definitely was _still not breathing…_

 _Rescue breathing_ – Two gentle breaths are forced into the patient's lungs by the rescuer, either by mouth-to-mouth resuscitation or using a special mask.

A quick memory flashed through his thoughts of John's voice and the smell of chlorine.

" _I'm glad no one saw that…" John said through heaving breaths._

" _Hmm?"_

" _You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool… people might talk."_

" _People do little else."_

 _They'd smirked and chuckled, briefly alleviating the stress of the moment._

Sherlock wanted to ask John what he thought people would say now, Sherlock's lips pressed against his as he willed his air into John's lungs.

It was driving him crazy that he couldn't laugh this off with his best friend. There was no humor dark enough or twisted enough to lighten the mood. He started the chest compressions again.

"…16, 17, Come on, John… 21, 22, 23…" he whispered as he felt something wet drip onto his hand. Was the roof leaking?

Before he could finish the thought, paramedics burst into the room. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge them.

"Sir, please let us take over... Sir! Sir!" one paramedic shouted at him…

A paramedic put his hands on Sherlock to try to pry him away from John, but Sherlock turned around and tried to punch him in the face. The other paramedics intervened. A quick scuffle began but was ended quickly by an authoritarian presence that entered the room.

"Enough!" yelled Mycroft. "Sherlock let them work."

"No! Mycroft. _Mycroft_ …"

Mycroft pulled him up off the floor where he had been busy trying to save John's life, and sat him down on the bed. Sherlock was sobbing. The paramedics were working on John, calling out vitals and shouting _CLEAR_ as they attempted to bring John back.

It was too much. The light, the sounds, and the colors were all jumbling together. The adrenaline pumping through Sherlock's veins made him shake and made him feel like he needed to do something productive, after all, this was _his fault._ He squeezed his eyes closed and placed his elbows on his knees, sinking his head into his hands.

"Sherlock, pull yourself together."

Sherlock's eyes shot up angrily at his brother. "SHUT. UP. You don't understand this!" Sherlock shouted.

"What don't I understand?" Mycroft quizzically inquired, calm as ever.

"This is MY. FAULT. If John dies here tonight, I can promise you that you will never see me again. If he goes, I go. There is no life worth living without John in it, especially if I was the one that drove him out of it. So just SHUT UP for once in your life!" he barely choked out the words, but still managed them at a break neck speed. He looked away, tears filling his eyes once again.

Mycroft looked at his brother. He'd always tried to monitor him, tried to protect him. Sherlock had a difficult childhood. He struggled to make friends and suffered from hypersensitivity and Autism. Today he may be considered high functioning, but the symptoms of Autism are clear, even to an untrained professional. He still struggles in social situations. When he gets agitated or frustrated, he taps, rocks, paces, and even pretends to play the violin in his left hand, tapping out rhythms against his thumb and fingers, as if his thumb were the fingerboard. His intelligence worked in his favor though – he taught himself how to manage his more telling atypical behaviors, thanks to their mother. She never put the responsibility on Mycroft, but being the eldest brother, Mycroft felt he should also protect his brother, from bullies, from drugs, from criminals… But their mother had a gentle patience with him that no one else seemed to have.

That is, until John Watson started hanging around. Mycroft had searched his background and reputation. At first, Mycroft didn't trust him…but then… Sherlock started to change. He started to care. Mycroft was worried that John was going to get him into trouble… and at times, he did. But John also cared. He was there for Sherlock on the bad days. So, Mycroft allowed the friendship. John filled a void for Sherlock…

If John were to die now, Mycroft wasn't sure that Sherlock would be ok. He didn't know if he would survive it, and that was even before his most recent declaration.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered. "We will get through this. I have been there for you before… I will always be there for you…"

"Sir?" Said a paramedic to the Holmes brothers.

"Yes?" responded Mycroft, looking up from his brother.

"We got him back. He's breathing."

"Oh thank God," sighed Sherlock.

"Thank you" said Mycroft.

They stood and watched as John was taken on a stretcher to the ambulance.

"Sherlock, you need to take a break from these cases. The police will manage without you." Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked at his brother, tears in his eyes.

"I need to get to the hospital." Sherlock said, grabbing his coat.

"Go." Said Mycroft.

Author's note: Thanks for reading! I'm not sure where this story is going to end up. I have a general outline, but it's taken me while to get this first chapter to a place where I feel like it is shareable. Please comment on or favorite the story and let me know what you think!


	2. Waiting

It was hours that Sherlock waited and paced the floor of the waiting room. His hands remained wringing themselves behind his back and his head would bobble from looking down, studying the carpet, to looking up and analyzing something about the ceiling. He was silent.

Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade were with him, waiting for the news.

Finally, he angrily muttered, "Why… WHY is it taking so long?!"

Molly walked in the path of Sherlock's pacing and stopped him. She was worried and tired for both John and Sherlock. Greg was the one who had called her, and of course she came. She now looked into Sherlock's red eyes. "What do you need?" she asked him.

"I need… John to be ok."

She reached out to him and placed her hand on his arm. Sherlock didn't move; he didn't even blink. She slowly put her hands around his waist and gave him a hug.

At first, he didn't do anything and the awkwardness of the moment permeated the space. But after a few seconds of her not letting go, Sherlock wrapped his long arms around her and held her tight…

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered.

"For what?"

"For always being good to me… even though I haven't been good to you." Sherlock whispered in her ear.

They pulled apart.

A part of him ached knowing that Molly ached. He knew… He always knew she loved him. He didn't know how to reciprocate the feeling. He couldn't. Not with her, at least. He just didn't feel that way about her. He wondered what that said about him… Molly was a good person, a pretty girl. She tolerated him, mostly. He always assumed it was simply because he was a self-diagnosed sociopath and figured he'd never truly understand love or sentiment. He didn't know if not saying anything was being merciful, or if it left her with hope. He never knew. He hated not knowing. He briefly wondered if Molly could see him not knowing.

 _That's not important right now,_ he thought to himself. He buried those thoughts deep in his Mind Palace. Detaching himself from those thoughts and feelings cleared Sherlock's brain and made space for facts and deductions.

He cleared his throat and took up his pacing again. His path was altered this time, as he moved around Molly. She quietly went back to her seat and it appeared that her and Greg shared a "look". Sherlock couldn't deduce what that meant. For God's sake, he couldn't deduce ANYTHING right now. His brain just kept replaying memories with John. Every comment that Sherlock said that made John laugh or grin played next to memories where John grimaced and yelled at him. He never seemed to have a moral compass until John entered his life. Most people didn't feel like it was their responsibility or didn't have the patience to tell Sherlock what was right, wrong… appropriate or inappropriate.

He remembers their conversation on "timing". It didn't start as a conversation of course. It started with Sherlock whispering "Not good?" to John after an inconsiderate comment about Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter during Lestrade's drugs bust at their flat on that first case. Later, during their Chinese food dinner at around midnight, John had confronted him about it.

"So… Sherlock. I wanted to ask you something about what you said earlier, in the flat…" he had looked up at Sherlock, seemingly unsure of how to continue. Or maybe unsure of how Sherlock would react.

"Yes?" was all Sherlock said in reply, narrowing his eyes at him as he took a bite of lo mein.

"Did you really not know? I mean, did it really not occur to you that Jennifer might still feel sadness and hurt over the loss of her stillborn daughter?"

Sherlock had initially wanted to get angry. He wanted to huff and sigh and get up and walk away. But John was polite and persistent…and surprisingly not judgmental.

"Does it matter? I solved the case. I figured out that the name was her password."

John paused for a minute before finally saying, "It would help me… make a deduction if I knew."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise. He sipped his water, wiped his face, and sat back in his chair.

"John, I am not a man of sentiment. I detach myself from emotions to focus on the work. Caring is not an advantage."

John seemed to mull over the words in his head. He pressed on though.

"Yeah but, Sherlock surely even you have experienced heartbreak in your lifetime. You've had to have felt… something."

Something had made Sherlock flinch, but he had only gazed into John's eyes. He did not know how to deal with the thoughts starting to flood his mind palace, so he did what he always did… changed the subject.

"You shot and killed a man tonight to save your flat mate whom you've known for less that 48 hours. You hardly seem affected by it. Perhaps it is I that should be making a deduction about you." He instantly regretted the comment when he saw the flicker of surprise and anger bounce across John's face. He was ready for him to bring up the fact that he had almost taken a pill from a serial killer. But he didn't.

John just returned his gaze, long and hard, searching for something.

"Fair enough. However, I know you get excited about having a case… having something to occupy your mind. But there are other people involved that have lost someone or something important. You have to try to remember that. People get attached and letting go is really difficult. It's ok to get excited… but you're timing was a bit not good tonight. We should work on that. Maybe not for your sake. But for other's. Not everyone is a sociopath, ok?"

John broke his gaze and took in a mouthful of rice, seemingly ending the conversation there. What he had said was firm, gentle, and matter-of-fact. Sherlock was not prepared for it at all and had just sat there for a few minutes before taking a bite of an egg roll. Of course not everyone was a sociopath. He knew that. But he had never considered that the fact that how other people felt should affect his actions.

John had the patience to teach Sherlock. Or at least try. He didn't know why or how John had that patience. But John had become Sherlock's moral compass. After that night in the Chinese restaurant, he'd wanted to make the doctor-soldier proud of him. It was one thing to impress John; it was another thing to make John proud. Sherlock could be impressive, but to live up to John Watson's expectations that he actually try to better himself… it was a challenge Sherlock lived for.

Every look, every glare, shake of the head, sigh… Sherlock had catalogued it all, first referencing his own behavior and then cataloguing John's reaction to tell if what he had done or said was appropriate. Sherlock hadn't even realized he was doing it at first. Upsetting John in the slightest often put him in moods where he wouldn't talk for hours or he'd just keep playing his violin until he felt he had worked out a conclusion for what he had done wrong. Sometimes, he couldn't figure it out.

Sherlock hadn't realized that he had stopped pacing and was staring out the window of the waiting room at the rain. He was so lost in his mind palace that it took Greg

shaking him a few times to pull him out of it.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock spoke in a low, barely audible tone, as he was jolted back to reality.

"It's John. The doctor is here to give us an update."

Sherlock wanted to shove Lestrade aside and start demanding answers. Just a year ago he probably would've…maybe even a few seconds ago. But he remembered how he wanted to make his doctor-soldier proud. He cleared his throat again and turned, crossing the room in a couple swift strides until he was looming over the doctor that waited for him.

"Hi, my name is Dr. Dembowski. Are you Dr. Watson's emergency contact?… a Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" He had paused only to look down at the paperwork on the clipboard he was holding.

"Yes, yes, how is he? How's John?" Sherlock was trying as hard as he could to keep the impatience and damn near panic out of his voice.

"Why don't we go to a more private room and talk?" suggested the doctor.

Sherlock scowled but nodded his head. Greg and Molly followed Sherlock into a smaller room with a desk and a few chairs. They all sat down and the doctor wasted no time in getting to the point.

"John was suffering from acute hypoxemic respiratory failure which led to cardiac arrest when the paramedics arrived on scene as a result of a cocktail of drugs that we have found in his system. He was practically dead when they found him as he had choked on his own vomit. They were thankfully able to clear his airway and insert a breathing tube to get oxygen in his blood and brain again. He's resting right now. Obviously, the concern is how long his brain was without oxygen before we were able to get the breathing tube in and start CPR. Considering what he's been through, I expect him to be unconscious for a day or so at least. We'll be able to assess his cognitive function after he wakes up, but it's likely that he'll have some weakness, dizziness, difficulty speaking, memory loss, focal motor and sensory deficits. He will likely be very confused when he wakes up. For now, he's stable. I can't really say much more about his condition at this point, as we don't know much ourselves." The doctor spoke quickly with determination. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as he could. It was his least favorite part of his job to give bad news to anxious family and friends.

Sherlock's eyes went from the doctor's face, to a spot on the wall behind him. He stared for a few seconds, taking all the information in. Drugs. Of course, it was the drug dealers who had sent out the hit… He looked back at the doctor,

"Can I see him?"

"Yes. For a few minutes, yes… Before you do though, I have to ask you… was John depressed? Has he been known to take drugs before? Was there something that happened that would've triggered him to take such a high dose?" asked the doctor looking from Molly, to Greg, to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked back at Molly and Greg for a moment. They were looking at him with shock and fear at all of the news they had just heard. Lestrade was at least making an effort to try to keep it together, but Molly wasn't as much.

Greg took a moment to step in at the doctor's comment, "No, _no._ A hit man hired by a drug cartel drugged him. We have the suspect in custody and are working to dismantle the cartel."

"Oh. That's unfortunate. But good news for John, at least he won't be put on suicide watch. Would you like to go see him now?" finished the doctor.

For a moment, he thought about asking Lestrade to join him, but then thought against it. He needed time with his blogger, alone. He had so much to say.

Greg nodded knowingly and went back to sit with Molly. He turned and said to Sherlock,

"Take care of yourself, mate. If you need something, ask, ok? We don't need the two of you being sick…" Sherlock only nodded and turned back to the doctor to follow him into the ICU.

My god, Sherlock just wanted to RUN to John. Everything was happening too slowly for him. They rounded a corner and at the end of a long hallway the doctor turned into room 426. Before he let Sherlock in completely, he lowered his voice and said,

"He might look different… there's a lot of tubes and wire-"

"Just let me in, please." Sherlock now pleadingly looked at the doctor. He stepped aside and let Sherlock in.

The door closed behind him and Sherlock suddenly became acutely aware of the silence that surrounded him. He had failed to notice the bustle of the hospital around him. There had been the faint murmuring from the TV's in the waiting room. There was a lot of talking as they walked through the ICU. Papers rustling, machines beeping… there was a machine beeping now in John's room. It cut through the deafening silence every few seconds, grounding Sherlock in the present.

Without that beep, he probably would've just stood and stared forever.

John looked weak. Sherlock's doctor soldier had been minimized from the brave and strong man Sherlock knew him to be, to a small looking, helpless form on a bed. The doctor had been right. There were many tubes and wires sticking out of him. He stared for what felt like an eternity.

A nurse coming in to check on John broke his gaze.

"Excuse me, love," she said, sliding past Sherlock. Sherlock only then took a couple steps closer to the bed. He felt protective and wanted to supervise… Sharon… he read on her nametag… as she wrote down numbers and checked IV's and tubes. Truth be told, he felt powerless. He was not the doctor. John was. And without him here to explain everything, Sherlock felt lost and quite honestly, stupid.

"He's a fighter." Sharon said when she seemed finished with checking out John.

"Mmm." Sherlock hummed in response. What was he supposed to say? The general platitude was annoying, and Sherlock just wanted the nurse to leave now so he could be alone with John, so he'd agreed.

Sharon could clearly feel Sherlock's trepidation.

"Take a seat, love." She pulled a chair over from the corner of the room – Sherlock now realized it was a private room, noting that he'd have to thank Mycroft later – and placed it next to John's bed. Sherlock gave no indication that he was going to sit, he just stood gazing at Sharon, eyes scanning for anything hinting that she was going to betray his trust or lie to him about John. He was looking for incompetence, a reason to prove that she was not worthy of working on his John. God, he hated being so STUPID about medical issues.

He had deduced that Sharon lived alone. About 28 years old, she had only a cat to care for. Probably alone because she's been focused on her work… thought Sherlock. By her accent, Sherlock realizes she's American and tries to deduce how she got into a London hospital. Before he can finish deducing, she says,

"You should talk to him."

"Wha-?" Sherlock began, again being suddenly brought back to reality by a beep from a machine.

"Sit. Talk. He can hear you. Might make him heal a little quicker knowing he's got someone familiar by his side to be there when he wakes up."

Sherlock was about to protest and debate, but her hands were on his shoulders, ushering him into the seat next to John's bed.

He sat and glared at the brunette.

"Listen, I know you're thinking he can't hear you. There are studies out there though that say he can."

 _Hmm. I'll have to find those studies and do some experimenting myself…_ he thought. He quickly brushed the thought away – this was no time for work or experiments.

Sharon was about to walk out of the room. Sherlock cleared his throat and she stopped for a moment, meeting his eyes from across the room.

"Erm… thank you, Sharon."

She smiled and left quietly.

The beeps from the machine continued on for what felt like an eternity. Sherlock thought if he stared long enough that he might bore a hole through John's eyelids and he might wake up.

Suddenly, John took a deep breath and exhaled.

Sherlock had sat up in his chair.

He didn't realize he'd taken John's hand into his own.


	3. Waking Up

~~~~~24 hours later~~~~~

A persistent "beep" woke him from his slumber.

He had not been dreaming, a rare event that left him feeling calm and serene, thought he wasn't sure why.

He left his eyes closed and had taken a deep breath in, enjoying the warmth of the blankets that surrounded him. When he did breathe in, he noticed a distinct smell as the air passed through his nostrils. Was that…. Disinfectant? The air smelled…. Sterile.

He only recognized that smell in hospital settings. Why did he know that?

Was he in a hospital?

He suddenly realized he didn't know where he was.

He wanted to bolt upright and start shouting, but his body protested. He could hardly move. Just breathing in had caused a slight pain in his chest…

 _From what?_ He thought.

 _I must open my eyes_ , he said to himself.

Just then, another beep cut through the silence.

Definitely a heart monitor, he noted. How did he know that?

Damn, his eyes felt like weights.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he was able to open his eyes. He immediately began squinting because the lights were so bright. He rubbed them with his left hand.

Now that he had his vision, sort of, he began trying to remember what happened to him, hoping that seeing his surroundings would help jog his memory.

Once his eyes seemed to focus, he noticed the tubes, wires, and IV's sticking out of hands, arms, nose, and chest.

 _What the hell happened to me?_

He began looking around the room. He was the only patient in the room, which he found surprising. The walls were tan. There was a window to his right. He could tell he was several floors up. There was a bathroom across from him and to his left was the glass exit door. A young man sat staring at him intently from the chair next to him on his right, blocking some of the light coming in from the window. The man was well dressed, but looked disheveled, as though he had been through something traumatic. Is he a part of the reason why I'm here?

If he is, why is he holding my hand?

He panicked for a moment and heard the heart monitor start beeping a bit faster.

He suddenly became aware of his situation. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten into this hospital bed. He couldn't remember his own bloody name or what he did. He couldn't remember this man, though he seemed important. After all, he was holding his hand. Was he my brother? No… our fingers were interlocked. That's much too intimate for that… Lover, then?

The thought made him panic again and the heart monitor started beating even faster. The man at the side of his bed glanced quickly at the monitor, then back to him. He leaned forward, still holding onto his hand. He squeezed it a little. He pressed the nurse "call" button on a remote sitting on his bed.

"It's ok, you're safe. Everything is ok now." Said the man in the chair. He had a deep, soothing voice that for a moment flickered recognition in his head, but it was gone almost as fast as it came.

He could feel his chest heaving up and down and _Christ_ did it _hurt._

He felt like screaming, but nothing came out. His throat was dry and he felt powerless and weak.

A nurse scurried into the room.

"He's awake." Said the man to the nurse.

"I'll tell the doctor," replied the nurse quickly, then added, "has he said anything?"

"No… he seems agitated at the moment as his heart rate has increased in just the past few minutes as he's woken up." The man responded.

The nurse left the room. The man in the chair pulled it closer and got right in his face.

"Just try to breathe. Relax." He said, glancing worriedly up at the monitor again.

Just then, a tall, muscular man in a white coat entered the room. He had more salt than pepper hair and he, too got close to him.

"Mr. Holmes… " he said looking at the man in the chair.

"Do you mind if I take a few minutes to assess him?" the doctor asked Mr. Holmes, as he now knew him.

Mr. Holmes only grunted and leaned back in his chair, watching everything the doctor did like a hawk.

The doctor took that as a yes and got close to his face.

"Sir… sir? Can you hear me?" he spoke in a loud and urgent voice.

He nodded his head.

"Good. Can you speak a little for me? Do you know where you are?"

He sighed. He gave it his best go to say "hospital" but instead his voice sounded scratchy and his speech slurred between the consonants.

"H-hosssss-ptal." He croaked out.

"Very good." Responded the doctor.

"My name is Dr. Dembowski. Can you tell me your name?"

He wanted to cry. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He shook his head slowly.

"Ok, that's ok. Your name is John. John Watson. You're a doctor. Do you remember any of that?"

He shook his head again.

"Ok. Do you remember how you got here?"

He shook his head again.

"That's alright. John, on the count of three, I want you to squeeze my fingers. Got it? One, two, three."

John squeezed with all his might, but it didn't feel very strong…

"Excellent. Now. I just want you to stay very still. Don't move your head. Follow my finger with your eyes."

John tried to focus. He was getting so tired. He completed the task.

The doctor didn't ask him any more questions. He said, "John, you had a little bit of an accident, ok? You might have trouble remembering things for a little while. That's ok. If you have any questions, just hit the 'call' button and a nurse will come in and tell you what they can, ok? The best thing for you right now is to sleep. I'll come check on you again in a few hours."

John looked from the doctor to Mr. Holmes.

"Oh, yes. This is Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock…" the man interrupted.

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes. He's your flat mate and colleague. You work together. He should be able to answer any personal questions you have too, though you really shouldn't strain yourself."

John's head was spinning. Nothing made sense. His head ached.

What kind of name was "Sherlock"?

He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep again.


	4. How Could He Ever Forget

John had started by just opening his eyes. He hadn't moved, blinked occasionally, and didn't follow anything with his eyes. He'd shut his eyes and went back to sleep.

Within a few hours, there had been improvement. He would keep his eyes open a little bit longer and start to focus on things in the room.

At the 24-hour mark, Sherlock heard John say his first word since the incident.

"H-Hoss-ptal" He'd said.

It was evident that he didn't remember a thing and that was distressing to Sherlock. He tried to detach himself from the feelings but everything seemed to be jumbling together in his mind palace.

What if he doesn't remember me ever? What if he has permanent brain damage? What the hell kind of a drug did those dealers give to John? Sherlock's brain continued to race on. He hadn't left John's side in those 24 hours other than to use the bathroom. He would be lying if he's said he wasn't tired, but then, it's just transport…

How precious did the transport seem now! How fragile it all seemed to be…

Sherlock's thoughts drifted to the night before. He'd already run through the series of events repeatedly in his brain. He wanted to delete it but he couldn't do that because it was all too important. There had to be something that he overlooked about this drug cartel or maybe a clue that was left in the house where he found John.

John. John. _John_.

He looked up from John's hands to his face and the consulting detective felt the same wave of fear and panic he had the night before. Instead of worrying that his blogger might not survive, Sherlock worried that he might not remember. The memories of the events leading up to him forgetting were ingrained in his mind.

 _It's my fault._ He told himself.

He was catastrophizing. If John never remembered their adventures… if he knew that the cause for his memory loss was his fault, would he ever forgive the detective? Would they ever solve another crime together again?

Sherlock didn't realize that his breathing had started to quicken until he heard a soft click as the door to John's room opened and closed.

"Been a long night, then?" Greg asked as he strode in the room, putting his hands in his pockets. Sherlock looked awful… he thought. He noted the messy hair, untucked shirt, and the dark circles under his eyes.

Sherlock didn't respond. He was staring right at John's face and were those…tears? Greg had seen Sherlock do a lot of things, but crying was not on that list.

"Hey… Sherlock. Are you ok?" Greg asked with growing concern as he took a couple more steps into the room.

It was then that he noticed the hitch in Sherlock's breathing.

"Sherlock. Hey – Sherlock, can you hear me?" Greg had run a hand into Sherlock's line of sight but he seemed to be focused on something else, somewhere else.

The intrusion into his line of sight caused Sherlock to momentarily come back to reality.

"I need some air" was his clipped retort.

"Ok." Greg responded quickly as the detective flew up from his chair, grabbed his Belstaff and headed briskly out the door. Greg struggled to keep up.

Sherlock took the stairs down to the main level of the hospital, practically running over nurses and doctors who got in his way. When he finally got outside, he walked into an empty garden park designed for patients to get some fresh air. It was spring; flowers were just starting to bloom. However, today was cloudy, dreary, and a bit of chill was in the air.

He found an empty bench and sat in it, almost immediately folding in on himself. His hands went to his hair and he wanted to pull all of his hairs out. It would feel like he was pulling each individual thought out of his head that he was having. Of course, there were about 150,000 hairs on average on a human's scalp. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was having only 150,000 thoughts. He was sure there were many more and the topic of each thought was one soldier/doctor/blogger/friend who lay unconscious in a room above them.

Greg stood next to the detective, not really sure what he should do in the situation, but knew that Sherlock was struggling to cope with John's condition. Sherlock hardly ever displayed his feelings to anyone other than John.

Before John came into his life, Greg had been on call on a night when Sherlock first overdosed. He remembered grimacing and shaking his head when he saw the young man passed out in a filthy apartment. _How do they get into this? He's too damn young._ He recalls thinking to himself. Lestrade had been the first to arrive on scene – he'd only been a block away when the call came in – and he immediately started to administer first aid – clearing airways, checking for a pulse, getting Sherlock onto his side. The paramedics had arrived only minutes later, saving the life of the young man. Greg had spent some time in the apartment after the boy was whisked away to gather information about him. He found his wallet, which included his ID, some bankcards, and an insurance card. He looked around the flat trying to decipher what the boy's occupation was. Maybe he was a student? There were lots of books lying open on his tables. Newspapers were scattered all over the floor and pictures were hanging on his wall. He noticed that all of the police reports from the papers were in a pile; some reports had been circled or crossed out. The pictures on the wall looked as if someone had been spying on the people in the photos. The people in the photos were doing ordinary things – walking dogs, grocery shopping, and buying coffee. He suddenly recognized one of the women in a photo hanging about the couch.

"Blimey…" he muttered. He realized the woman was a wanted criminal. She was a suspected drug smuggler, but nobody at the Yard had been able to locate her since her connection was discovered about 3 weeks ago.

Greg reopened the boy's wallet and looked at the name.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes" he read. "Who the hell _are_ you?" he asked aloud.

He continued his search around the flat, finding the drugs William must've used and what appeared to be science experiments in the kitchen. There were vials and Bunsen burners and Erlenmeyer flasks, fluids and droppers and other such paraphernalia one typically doesn't find in a kitchen. Rather, they would be found in some sort of laboratory.

Greg meandered around the flat for a few more minutes before deciding he was going to get to the hospital and figure out whom this William Holmes was.

A day later, he had entered the emergency room, stating his name and business, showing his badge to the nurse behind the receptionist's desk. She led him back to a private room where the boy had been placed.

He lay unconscious looking more and more like a teen than a young adult. The boy's wallet had said that he had just turned 21 years old. Greg wondered briefly how he had gotten his own room at this hospital, but dismissed the idea and chalked it up to the boy having wealthy parents. _Wonder where those poor blokes are…_

Greg didn't have to wait for long until the boy came round. It seemed that no members of his family had been able to arrive yet, so the DI decided to stay and make sure he got his wallet.

"Hey there, mate. How ya feeling?" Greg asked.

The boy coughed and responded with a dismissive, "Who the hell are you?"

 _Great…_

"My name's Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I was the one that found you last night. Want to explain why I found cocaine in your apartment tonight?" he reached into his pocket and had pulled out a clear plastic bag that had the drug paraphernalia in it, dangling it in front of William.

The boy rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Isn't it obvious?" he scoffed. "For a detective, you're not so bright after all."

"Listen," started the inspector, "you could get in a lot of trouble here. Do some serious jail time. But I may be willing to drop the charges and clear your name on a couple of conditions…" he couldn't believe he had said what he'd said….

"What conditions are those, detective inspector?" spat out William.

"I want you to tell me how you got those pictures that are up on your walls in your apartment. Any information that you have about a wanted criminal should be shared with the police. I want you to tell me who you know, how you know them, and any other connections you might have."

William didn't even blink. "What's the other condition?"

"You gotta get clean, mate. No more o' this shit." He said, gesturing to the bed.

William sat and stared off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought for a few minutes.

"So you want me to help you solve the case with the smuggler?" William finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes, and any other cases you know about." Added Greg.

"Fine. It's a deal. But- I may need access to a laboratory." William put out his hand and Greg shook it, unsure that they had agreed to the same thing.

Greg now chuckled at the memory to himself. He remembered handing the man his wallet and saying, "It's nice to meet you William. Do you have a nickname? Will or Billy?"

The boy scoffed again. "It's Sherlock. Please."

Greg had been surprised that Sherlock had chosen one of his middle names as his preferred name. It was such a strange and different name… but as he got to know the man over the course of the next several years, he felt the name suited him.

Greg looked at the man in front of him now. He felt a surge of what could only be described as a fatherly affection. The brilliant consulting detective was a mess. Greg hadn't seen him this disheveled since he first met him. Sherlock was prone to anxiety attacks when he was younger, which was part of what drove him to use drugs. Greg shuddered at the memory. He recalled now how, on several occasions, he would just sit with the detective and help him calm his breathing when he became overwhelmed. Sherlock probably would never admit to anyone how often he got overwhelmed.

Greg knew. He saw it. He knew Sherlock's agitation and poor treatment of others was just a way of him coping with social anxiety. Him and John had both agreed that the man was probably on the spectrum, but very high functioning for sure. John had made him… better. John was patient and worked with him and explained things in a way that got through to him. The two people Sherlock let in were John and Greg, and Greg he let in even less when John was around.

But now he knew it was his turn to help him.

"Sherlock. You want to talk about how you're feeling?" he started.

There was no response. Sherlock's grip in his hair tightened and he continued to stare at the ground.

"I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong." He continued.

Still nothing.

"Listen, it's not your fault. John wouldn't blame you for this. He knows what kind of trouble he's getting into when he runs about with you and – "

"You can't know that." Muttered Sherlock.

"What?"

Sherlock glared up at his friend and pulled his hands from his hair.

"You can't know that. You can't know that he wouldn't blame me. Why shouldn't he? We never split up; he'd insisted that night that we shouldn't split up and I told him that we'd be fine and I was wrong. John is always right. He's right so often it's practically boring. Why haven't I learnt to listen by now?"

"You can't know the future Sherlock. You had no reason to believe that things would've worked out like they did. Also, you're stubborn. You don't like it when anyone or anything gets in the way of your plans." He paused a moment. "I _can_ know that John wouldn't blame you. Because he's John Watson, best friend of Sherlock Holmes. Anybody who's going to be your best friend knows they're in for a bit of trouble here and there. John's a soldier, Sherlock. He doesn't run away in the face of danger. He can take care of himself, and he knows that when he's running about with you that he's running straight into danger. It's his decision to get into trouble with you."

A heavy pause filled the air.

"What if he never remembers, Greg?" Sherlock was looking away from his mentor and up at the hospital in front of them, almost as if he was looking straight into John's room.

Another pregnant pause passed without a word.

Finally Greg said, "How could he ever forget?"

Sherlock started to cry then. It started with hot, silent tears that he frantically tried to wipe away. But soon, a sob escaped from him as Greg sat down next to Sherlock and put his arm around his shoulders. He alternated between rubbing his back in soothing circles and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. God, it killed him to see Sherlock so vulnerable. The man usually seemed so in control. But, the few who really knew him, knew that wasn't exactly true. Sherlock wept for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, chilly raindrops began to softly pitter-patter on the ground.

 _How appropriate…_ thought Greg.

"Come on mate, we better get inside. Looks like a storm's rolling in."

Sherlock began to calm his breathing and the tears and sobs subsided. A roll of thunder rumbled in the distance. Sherlock anxiously rubbed his hands against his legs as Greg stood up next to him.

"Greg?"

"Yeah."

"…Thank you."

"Anytime, Sherlock."


	5. Did You Miss Me?

It felt like a weighted blanket had been put over his brain. He was desperately trying to find his way out from under it, but he could never find an edge. He got used to being under the blanket, instead of being afraid of it, he actually found comfort in it now. He would drift in and out of consciousness not really understanding much of anything.

That was how it went for about two and a half more days. The doctor would come in and examine him and that man still sat next to him. Sometimes he was holding his hand when he awoke, but he always quickly untangled his fingers. He seemed sad when he said he didn't remember who he was. But John knew there was no sense in lying to him.

One morning though, John woke up and felt different. The weighted blanket was lifted.

 _The low rumble of bombs exploding in the distance and the heat of the desert sun were causing chaos to his senses. He could taste the iron flavor of blood in his mouth and the rapid gunfire beginning again caused him to drop to the hot sand._

" _MEDIC!" he heard someone yell._

 _That was for him. He was the medic. A soldier needed him. Could be dying._

 _He felt stuck. He couldn't move. Paralyzed in the moment, his brain was screaming at his muscles but they were not responding._

 _He could hear the groans and calls of soldiers all around him and he couldn't bring himself to his feet. He stayed glued on his stomach in the sand with his eyes shut as the gunfire continued._

 _He finally managed to turn his head to the left and he opened his eyes. To his horror, light blue grey eyes stared back at him. The eyes were unmistakably those of Sherlock's. John was immediately on his knees leaning over the body. Instead of his normal tailored suit, Sherlock was wearing an army uniform. He'd been shot, in his abdomen and blood had seeped through his uniform._

" _Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?" John's frantic voice hitched as he began feeling for a pulse._

" _MEDIC!" he heard from somewhere behind him._

" _CAPTAIN WATSON!" a voice bellowed from several hundred yards away._

 _John could feel the adrenaline pumping through him. He knew Sherlock was dead and that he had to go help his other comrades but he couldn't give up on him like that. What was he even doing here? He looked around and he saw his friends from the army lying dead around him. Suddenly, he felt a searing tear in his shoulder. He looked down and saw blood pouring from his own shoulder now._

 _He looked down at Sherlock and was surprised to see blood on his face and caked in his hair. It looked exactly like when Sherlock had fallen…_

 _John could feel himself hyperventilating and fading fast. He decided that he had to try to help the others and he began crawling across the sand to another soldier who had a leg wound. He tried to dress the wound quickly and move on, but the hand of the soldier reached down and grabbed John's arm._

" _Did you miss me?" said that terrible, sickening voice…the voice of Moriarty. He pulled out a gun, aimed it straight into John's face and fired._


	6. Remember Me

John awoke with a shout and was practically hyperventilating by the time he was fully conscious. Sherlock noticed John tossing and turning and at first, was concerned that his friend was in pain. But when John awoke, frantic and shouting, Sherlock knew that this was a nightmare.

Sherlock was at his side in an instant.

"John? John, look at me. You're safe. You're in the hospital. Everything's going to be alright." He gently, but firmly grasped John's wrists as his hands momentarily turned to fists as his fight or flight response was triggered. John looked into Sherlock's eyes and his fists relaxed and Sherlock guided his hands down to his side.

He was still breathing erratically, though. Sherlock was speaking in a tone that he rarely used. It was genuine, a tone he usually only used with John, or someone Sherlock was close to, when they were in distress. Laced in with his sincerity was also concern and more noticeable, apprehension. Did John remember him?

"That's good, John. Can you breathe with me now? Just breathe."

Sherlock breathed in through his nose, held it for a few seconds, then let it out of his mouth slow. He was used to this routine. He had seen John wake up from nightmares before and usually Sherlock would play his violin for him after helping him calm down with his grounding exercises. John repeated Sherlock's breathing exercises as Sherlock ran soothing circles over his knuckles with his fingers.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked.

"Like shit." John croaked, leaning back against his pillows, rubbing tears from his eyes.

Sherlock reached over onto the nearby table and put a cup of cold water with a straw up to John's mouth. He drank gratefully.

"Are you in much pain?"

"Head's a bit sore. So's my chest." He said, coughing.

"Do you… remember who I am?" hesitated Sherlock.

John furrowed his brow and Sherlock was sure his friend was going to deny knowing him again. But to his surprise John responded with an, "What? Course I do. You're bloody Sherlock Holmes. World's only consulting detective."

Sherlock gave a tiny grin and let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

While it seem like John was having a little trouble with talking still, he was remembering. Maybe whatever drug was in his system was finally wearing off.

John, confused as ever and irritated, asked, "What the h-hell happened?"

Sherlock sobered up in an instant as the smile disappeared from his face.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was interviewing Ms. Richards."

Sherlock could tell that John was getting tired and annoyed with his occasional lisp and stutter.

"Right. Well. A man attacked you. He drugged you with a frankly impressive cocktail of drugs that practically killed you. Your… heart stopped." Sherlock gulped and averted his eyes momentarily away from John's.

" You've been in an out of consciousness for almost 3 days now. You couldn't remember anything." Explained Sherlock. He deliberately left out a few details, but also didn't want to overwhelm John.

"I see," said John. He was obviously growing tired and his body was protesting every moment of him being awake. His eyes drifted shut, but he had so many questions. He tried fighting it.

" I've got quest-questions." His voice trailed off at the end.

"I can answer them later. Do rest now, John." And Sherlock once again took John's hand and gave a gentle squeeze. Sherlock felt John gently squeeze back before he presumably fell asleep again.

John didn't get to sleep for long because Dr. Dembowski came in early to perform a thorough examination. Over the next several hours, there were many questions, testing of reflexes; even a couple of scans that Sherlock found hateful because he had to stay out.

The test results were all clear though, the drug had left John's system and any remaining side effects should theoretically subside in the upcoming days. Over the course of the next several hours, John's slurred speech began to clear up. The doctor wanted to keep John for one more day for observation, and then he could be released to go home to Baker Street with Sherlock.

In the meantime, night had fallen. Sherlock took his place next to John in his chair.

"Boy, I'll be glad to get out of here." John quipped.

"As will I."

"You could go home, you know. Get some sleep. You look like shit."

"Mmmm" hummed Sherlock in response.

"Have you even slept? It's been almost 4 days, and I know you hadn't slept before due to the case."

"John, you know I do not require the same amount of sleep as the average human being."

"That's not what I asked." John's eyebrows raised and he looked at Sherlock with concern.

Sherlock sighed. "I try to nap when you are sleeping. However, this chair is terribly uncomfortable." He said, even then shifting his weight.

"Why don't you go home then? I'll be fine here. I'm just going to be sleeping anyways. No need for you to be exhausted."

Sherlock was torn. He had to admit he was tired as hell and his brain was hardly functioning at this point. He cursed his transport. How could he leave John here? What if something happened? Guilt also gripped him tightly. He was responsible for why John was in that bed and while he couldn't do much to help the man recover medically, he could at least stay by his side for support.

"John, I'd really prefer if I stayed."

"No you don't. You hate hospitals. What's gotten into you?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, sighed, and looked away.

"Sherlock, look at me, I am your best friend. Talk to me. Clearly something is bothering you, so tell me what it is."

Sherlock suddenly felt a tightening in his chest. He knew the time for honesty was now, but damn he was so bad at conveying emotions.

A pause lingered while Sherlock thought of what to say, but John was ever the patient doctor and waited for his response.

"I am the reason you're sitting in that hospital bed." His voice was low, barely audible. He said it while looking down at his fingers that were anxiously tapping a repetitive rhythmic pattern on his thigh.

"Why do you feel responsible?" John asked. He wasn't actually confused. He knew why Sherlock felt responsible, but he wanted Sherlock to get it out of his head. So he spurred him on to talk more.

"That night…. we split up. I insisted. The man who attacked you was a… hit man hired by the drug smuggling group that I was investigating. They went after you because my cover was blown. I hadn't anticipated a member of the homeless network to be involved and recognize me. I was betrayed, but I escaped before they could kidnap me and got to you as quickly as I could. If we hadn't split up, if I had known the man would recognize me…." His voice trailed off and his hands went to his hair with his elbows on his knees.

Gentle but firm hands covered Sherlock's own and begged for Sherlock to release his curly locks. Sherlock let go.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are a complete git."

"…Sorry?" Sherlock was confused.

"Did you stick the needle in my neck and inject that drug into my system?"

"No. Certainly not, I would never do that to you." Sherlock said, sitting up a bit taller

in his bed, defensively.

"Right. _I know_ that. You didn't put me here."

"You would not be here if it were not for me. If I hadn't been so stupid…" he was cut off as John pointed at him.

"Stop it. I never want to hear you call yourself stupid again. Sherlock, I am capable of handling myself. We both agreed to split up. I choose to go on dangerous adventures with you to solve crimes and catch criminals. I'm bound to get hurt every now and again, as are you. There's no sense in you torturing or blaming yourself over it."

His voice was sure and stern, like the voice of a commanding officer. There was no room for arguing and Sherlock knew it. He was still overcome with emotion. The thought of losing John was too great for him in that moment.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

"John there's something… I don't know how to say…. " his voice hitched.

"Take a breath." Said John, hand returning to Sherlock's.

People never saw this side of Sherlock. The ONLY person that was ever allowed to see Sherlock this vulnerable was John. Sure, some people may think that their relationship was more than platonic, but that wasn't true. Their friendship was something that was pure and simple, while arguably also containing parts that were increasingly complex and filled with shadows. There was just so much that went on that no one else knew about; their conversations, those precious moments after John had a nightmare, or Sherlock practically had a meltdown, they were all defining moments in their friendship.

"I know I've never said it before. But you are very important to me and I… care for you."

"I know." Responded John. "Come here."

Sherlock stood up from his chair but didn't know what he was supposed to do.

"Sit." John said as he patted the side of the bed.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed; one or two remaining silent tears still running down his cheeks.

John sat up and he put his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, effectively hugging him. At first, John felt Sherlock's body tense at the contact, but he relaxed and responded by wrapping both of his long arms around John as well and holding him tight. They stayed like that for a long time.

John may have let out a few silent tears of his own. John was the one that finally pulled away from the embrace. He kept both hands on Sherlock's shoulder and looked him in the eyes.

"I care about you, too, you brilliant git."

They both cracked a smile and the mood improved significantly.

"Go home. Get some rest. Come back tomorrow, and we'll get the hell out of here, alright?"

John could see the brief internal struggled that gripped Sherlock.

"I need some clothes and toiletries, too." John added, hoping that giving Sherlock a purpose for going home would get him to agree.

"Oh. Of course." John grinned to himself, pleased that his plan had worked.

"I'll come back straight away in the morning. If you need me, text me or call me, I'll turn the volume up on my phone." Sherlock stood up from the bed.

"Right." Sherlock said, seeming to still be torn about leaving.

"Well, get going! Remember, clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste –"

"UGH, yes, DULL!" Sherlock exclaimed walking towards the door.

John chuckled again. "Have a good night, Sherlock. See you in the morning."

Sherlock sniggered and walked out of the room.

 **Author's Note:** This story will DEFINITELY be continuing with some new twists and turns hopefully coming in the next couple weeks. In the meantime, enjoy!


	7. Rook and Roll

**3 weeks later**

John had stayed back on cases for about 3 weeks after he was released from the hospital. Well, he would have stayed back, but Sherlock insisted on not taking any cases during that time. He would answer some inquiries online, but only when John slept or watched telly.

As expected, Sherlock became increasingly anxious and restless, and he was in such a state one Saturday morning, pacing from room to room, when the doorbell to 221B buzzed.

Sherlock stopped midstride and tilted his head as he quickly analyzed the sound. John looked up from his paper to Sherlock.

"Lestrade." Sherlock confirmed.

"Right, well, it's about time. It's been too quiet lately." John commented. Sherlock did not respond.

Downstairs, the sound of Mrs. Hudson opening the door and greeting the inspector wafted up to their sitting room. Sherlock stood up straighter, looking in the mirror above the fireplace to tousle his hair, and then straighten his coat. Greg's footfalls on the stairs could be heard just as Sherlock turned to sit in his black and chrome chair. He crossed his legs, steepled his fingers under his chin, and closed his eyes, just as the inspector opened the door to their flat. John tried to keep the bemused smirk off of his face, so he hid behind his paper a little more.

"Murder. A man, Colin White, was stabbed in the back in his own flat. Seems he was a bit of a chess enthusiast. He was found by his girlfriend this morning." Said Lestrade, almost out of breath from his quick ascent of the stairs.

Sherlock's eyes whipped open and he was looking straight at John. He would be anyways, but John's paper was still up, blocking his face. Sherlock willed for him to put the paper down, which he did, but probably because of the silence that answered Lestrade's request. John returned Sherlock's gaze and furrowed his brow.

"What else?" Sherlock finally replied, after finally being able to see John's face.

He wanted to take this case. He _needed_ to take this case, but he certainly wasn't going to leave John here; Sherlock knew he needed his friend and blogger. If John weren't feeling up to it, Sherlock would refuse the case for him.

As if reading his mind, John gaze Sherlock an almost imperceptible nod, confirming that he felt ready to go.

"Seems like the game went badly – maybe the murderer got angry that he was losing? We've kept everything as it was. So far, there's nothing obvious to point out who would've wanted to hurt White."

Sherlock stood up and buttoned his jacket

"You go on ahead. I'll follow in a cab."

"Alright." Lestrade turned and headed down the steps.

Sherlock walked over to the coat rack and started pulling on his coat and scarf. John stood and went over to grab his coat.

"Are you sure you're feeling up to this?" Sherlock asked him.

"Yeah. Sherlock, I've been ready for two weeks for you to get a case. Let's go."

Before Sherlock had the opportunity to reply, John had walked away and was making his way down the stairs. Sherlock followed after quickly.

When they arrived at the dead man's flat, Sherlock took one look at the distressed girlfriend and turned away from her. He murmured to John, "She's not involved."

Without any explanation for his deduction, John just nodded and agreed like he knew exactly why, even though he didn't have a clue.

Lestrade led them to the sitting room. He told everyone in the room to leave for at least 5 minutes. Sherlock and John entered when the room was empty.

The room was large. There was a big central table that held 4 chessboards, one of them set up with a match that appeared to be mid-game. Colin was lying face down on the carpet next to the table with a blade still stuck in his back.

"No fingerprints, I presume?" John asked as he looked down at the blade.

"No." replied Lestrade.

John walked with his arms crossed around the room. Without touching anything, he looked around, noting the long bookshelf that was dedicated to chess playing, and the small pieces of Greek statuary. Sherlock was busy examining the body, searching pockets and using his pocket magnifying glass. A few silent minutes passed and John made his way back to the chessboard and looked at the pieces that were there.

John was no chess expert, but he could tell that white was winning. The white pieces were dominating the board with a line of major pieces, its bishops immediately either side of a rook. John briefly considered Lestrade's words about how the game must've gone awry.

Sherlock stood, glanced around the room, and at the chessboard. His brow furrowed momentarily, but he said nothing.

"What have you got?" asked Lestrade, who was standing with his arms crossed near the doorway.

"This wasn't about the chess game."

"So you think it was premeditated?" Lestrade asked.

"Obvious, really. We need to find out who visited Colin White yesterday. Did he have a diary, or calendar of any sort that he kept? Perhaps on his mobile phone?" Sherlock asked as he continued to search around the room.

"His girlfriend might know more about where he would've kept a diary. His phone's calendar was empty."

"Hmm. He probably didn't keep one then. The man was clearly in a high paying job, probably the city, so I'd imagine he'd have a secretary or assistant who would keep his professional calendar. Did the girlfriend mention anyone who had planned on visiting yesterday?"

"No. She was away in Brussels that last two weeks visiting family. She just arrived back this morning. They hadn't been together for very long. It doesn't seem like she knows his friends very well."

Sherlock nodded and then pulled a business card out of his pocket.

"Well, she may not know his friends very well, but I have a feeling we won't have any trouble meeting them soon enough." He handed the card to John.

"Rook and Roll. It's a chess-playing community. White was a member?"

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Right, well let's get over there and start getting some interviews."

 **Author's Note: This case is based off of a case called "The Enthusiast" included in "The Sherlock Homes Puzzle Collection"**


	8. Rook and Roll Part 2

Rook and Roll was only a ten-minute walk from White's flat. It was located in a community center that hosted many clubs and events throughout the week for people to participate in. Luckily, the club in question was meeting on that Saturday. Lestrade had stayed at the crime scene to finish up with forensics while Sherlock and John went to the community center. John didn't know what Sherlock's plan was, but as ever, he faithfully followed behind the detective.

Sherlock strode into the community center and walked up to the main desk.

"Erm, excuse me, my friend and I would like to play a game of chess. Are there any tables available?"

John played along but wanted to roll his eyes. Sherlock was acting so polite and innocent. He put on this show whenever he was trying to get information from witnesses or when he was trying to get his way.

The woman behind the desk was young, probably a college student. She had dark skin and hair, and was wearing a faded employee t-shirt and jeans. She was awfully short, maybe only 5 feet tall, John thought. She spoke in a high-pitched voice, but did not even look up from her computer to respond.

"Are you a member?" she asked.

"Oh, erm, sorry, no. Can we sign up?" asked Sherlock, flashing a smile in the girl's direction to try to catch her attention.

She glanced up from her computer momentarily and then quickly returned her eyes to the computer screen. John could catch a hint of a blush on her cheeks.

"There's a member fee and I'll need some identification." She said emotionlessly.

Sherlock and John complied with the woman behind the counter and she gave them a brief tour of the facility before leading them to a chess table. After she left, Sherlock's façade broke and he gazed around the room, analyzing and taking in as much as he could about the few people that were there playing as well. It was quiet, only minimal conversation being held by some, while others sat in silence contemplating moves and strategies. Sherlock pretended to move a piece on the board so as not to draw attention to himself.

After sitting for nearly ten minutes in silence, Sherlock stood up and walked over to two men sitting at a table near the window in the corner. John followed him.

"Hi. My name is Sherlock." He had put up that false identity again. "Sorry to interrupt, but I heard you mention Colin White… I can hardly believe the news." He said in a mock-sad voice. John didn't understand how the rest of the world fell for his fake identities.

"News?" exclaimed the older of the two men. He was a heavier man with graying black hair. He wore thick glasses and wore navy trousers with a burgundy jumper.

"Yes. Didn't you hear? Colin was found this morning in his flat… dead…" Sherlock made a show of letting his eyes water momentarily and trying to blink the tears away.

"My God!" exclaimed the other man. This man was probably in his late thirties, maybe ten years younger the man sitting across from him. He too wore glasses, but he was much leaner than his counterpart.

"Sorry… who did you say you were?" asked the older man.

"Sherlock. I'm an old friend of Colin's. We grew up together. What about you?"

"Well," said the younger man, "I cannot believe this. I just saw Colin yesterday. We had lunch together at his flat. I'm Brian, by the way. Brian Campbell." He stood and shook Sherlock's hand. "We often played chess together. He was a formidable opponent, that's for sure. I always thought he took the game a little too seriously, though, but it made it challenging to play with him." He ran his fingers through his hair.

"This is my coworker, George. George didn't know Colin very well. Only met him the once at the tournament, right George?" continued Brian.

"Yes. He was quick, that one. I remember him. He won the whole tournament." George stayed in his seat as the conversation continued.

"God, I can't believe he died. Was it a heart attack? Oh no… no, no, wait. It wasn't… He didn't do it to himself… did he?" he put his hand over his mouth.

"No, actually. I heard someone killed him." Sherlock replied.

"What?!" Brian was becoming visibly upset. "H-How could… why would anyone want to hurt Colin? Why? He was the most kind-hearted, gentle man who ever lived!" He sat back down, unbelieving in his chair. John still stood a few feet away from it all, listening and absorbing as much information as he could.

"I don't know." Responded Sherlock. "Someone must've gone there after you did."

"Oh my God. Oh my God…." Brian just shook his head and mumbled to himself.

"What is it?" Sherlock was clearly becoming a bit impatient and for a moment, his innocent tone had turned a bit more direct.

"It's just that… when I had finished eating lunch with Colin yesterday, he said that he'd invited Tom Wilton over to play a game of chess with him. Tom is just learning how to play and Colin had agreed to tutor him. Tom always did have a temper on him but… oh God… I need to call the police." Brian stood up and walked away pulling out his phone.

Sherlock pulled on his gloves and looked down at George. "Have a good day."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the community center.

"So that's our man, then? Tom Wilton?" John asked, following behind Sherlock's quick pace.

"No. There has to be someone else. But, Mr. Wilton might be our key to figuring out who killed Colin." Replied Sherlock as he briskly walked down the sidewalk.

"How do you know it wasn't Tom? If he was the last one to visit Colin last night, doesn't it make sense that he would've been the one to commit the crime?"

"No. The motive's wrong. I told you, this wasn't about a chess game. Now, let's figure out where Mr. Wilton is today." He reached out his hand and hailed a cab.

In the cab, Sherlock was busy texting someone on his phone. He had told the driver to go to NSY initially, but changed the address to a coffee shop in central London about a quarter of the way through the trip.

"So it isn't Tom? But even Camp-" started John as they sat at a traffic light.

"No. Please no talking. I need to think." Sherlock rumbled, emphasizing the 'k' in "think".

John didn't respond, just looked out the window at what was becoming a dreary day in London. Dark, overhanging clouds were forming and for a moment, John wished he'd brought an umbrella or a warmer jacket. He thought about the case and the scene of the crime. He couldn't understand why Sherlock thought Tom Wilton wasn't a suspect. Of course, he wasn't the consulting detective. And what's more, he believed Sherlock. He always did. He knew he was right and would probably follow him to the ends of the Earth just so Sherlock could prove it. _Maybe that's not quite healthy… or normal_ , John momentarily considered.

Before he knew it, the cab had pulled up to the coffee shop named "Grounds" and Sherlock was halfway out the door. John quickly paid the cabbie and tried to catch up with Sherlock.

Sherlock had walked into the coffee shop, skipped the line, and addressed the cashier.

"I need to speak with Tom Wilton."

The young man behind the counter looked puzzled.

"Umm, I'm sorry sir, but you can't just-"

"It's a matter of police business." Sherlock flashed one of his fake police badges he'd stolen from Lestrade. "I suggest you point out Mr. Wilton to us or I'm afraid I'll be forced to arrest you for aiding a criminal. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

The frightened cashier visibly paled and frantically shook his head as he turned around and headed into the kitchen. He returned a few moments later with a fit young man would was drying a coffee mug with a rag.

John stood a few steps back from Sherlock. He had no idea what he was planning to do, but John didn't really like how aggressive the whole encounter was starting.

The man who was presumably Tom Wilton was around 22 years of age. He was just finishing up at university and was working as a dishwasher for "Grounds" to earn some extra money. He was short and stocky, with long brown hair that was tied in a bun and hidden under a hat. He had an impressive, full beard as well that had hints of red in it. He wore big, silver glasses, too. He looked like an American 'hipster' to John.

"What the hell is this all about, then?" asked Tom, still drying the mug he was holding.

Sherlock dove right in to an interrogation in front of the whole shop. John interrupted him and suggested they go somewhere more private.

"Erm, perhaps it would be better if we moved to that table over there?" he said, pointing to a secluded table in the corner.

Sherlock sighed but walked over, with John and Tom following behind.

They all sat and Sherlock continued, full deductive glare focused on Mr. Wilton, who was sitting directly across from him.

"As you may or may not be aware, a man was found stabbed in the back in his own flat last evening. His name was Colin White and he was an avid chess player. According to our investigations so far, you were the last one to see him yesterday, so you are now the prime suspect in a murder investigation. I suggest that you answer all of my questions thoroughly and honestly if you want to stand a chance at getting out of this."

Tom looked dumbstruck.

"Wait… Preston said that you were the police… if I'm the prime suspect, why haven't you arrested me yet? Why are you trying to get me out of it?" Tom asked.

"Not the police. I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective. I know you didn't kill Colin White. But, I need to know if there was anyone that visited him yesterday evening after you left his flat. So tell me, when did you arrive? What time did you leave?"

Sherlock's sentences were being rapidly fired off and John could hardly keep up with his questions. Tom stayed with him, though, and answered.

"I got there around 2 in the afternoon. Colin and I played a game of chess. He's teaching me to play, you know… I really look up to him. He's a great mentor and teacher and he's so damned smart. Well… was. Anyway, I left around 4:30. He didn't say that anyone was coming to visit him that evening…. I can't believe someone would kill him…"

John interjected, "So, you don't know of anyone in Colin's life that would want to harm him in any way?"

"Well, you have to understand, Colin is a real private guy. Doesn't talk much about his personal life. He had just told me yesterday that he had a girlfriend. Janet, I think, is her name. Didn't say much, just that she was away for a few days and would be getting back today. He didn't really talk much about his family."

The interview was not garnering enough information for Sherlock. He quickly realized that Tom was a dead end. So, he wrapped things up quickly with him and decided to take a cab to Colin's workplace.

John was getting antsy. He couldn't understand Sherlock's line of thinking and he was getting sick of being left in the dark. He also didn't want to admit to Sherlock that he was confused. How could Tom not be the killer? There was no evidence yet of anyone else going to Colin's apartment. Sherlock texted Lestrade and told him to meet them at the Colin's office.

They arrived at Colin's workplace, an accounting office in the center of town. Sherlock didn't put up any disguises this time. Instead, he waited for Lestrade and they all went in together.

Fortunately, they didn't have any trouble with the secretaries; everyone was cooperative. They were shown to Colin's office in a small room with a large, dark, wooden desk. He had been using a chess figure as a paperweight. Overall, his desk was quite organized. It seemed the man liked things to be in order. It made it easy to locate his business calendar. Sherlock had handed it to John to sift through, but John looked at the date Colin had been murdered and only the two appointments that they already knew about were present.

He was about to say as much, but Sherlock pressed a button on Colin's phone and a low, female voice filtered into the room through the speakerphone.

"Hi Colin, it's me. I'm just calling to check in and see how you're doing? I miss you. Can't wait to see you in a few days! I'll be home before you know it. I love you, bye."

There was a long beep and the machine said, "Next message."

"Girlfriend?" asked Lestrade before the next message started. Sherlock gave a quick nod as the second message started.

"This message is for Colin White. Congratulations, you have won an all-expense paid vaca-"

Sherlock deleted the automated message. He scowled and once again the machine beeped and said, "Next message."

This time, a man who seemed out of breath spoke.

"Colin! Long time no see, buddy." The tone of voice seemed ironic. They definitely HAD seen each other recently. "Hey, I wanted to let you know that I'm sorry. I know we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I want to make it up to you. Would it be all right if I stopped by sometime? Let me know."

"That's it. That's our man." Said Sherlock. And with a flourish of his coat, he quickly marched out of the room.


	9. I Believe Sherlock Holmes

He hated admitting he wasn't strong enough. He hated that he couldn't anticipate what has happening. This night had gone completely wrong.

They had found the man, Alan Lloyd who voiced the message on Colin's White's message machine. That night, they had gone off on their own after Sherlock got a tip from one of his homeless network about where Alan had been hiding. Alan was Colin's cousin. He was jealous of him because he was in love with Colin's girlfriend. Of course Lestrade and team of police officers had been on their way, but now, every second seemed precious and he cursed himself and his judgment. He believed Sherlock Holmes. He believed him so much that it was going to kill him.

Everyone seemed to know that John was Sherlock's weak spot. Moriarty knew. Those drug dealers had known. They always came after him to try to manipulate Sherlock and Sherlock always, _always_ found a way to find a third option, another way to get out of even the most impossible situations.

Tonight was different, though.

Of course, as always, they had chased Alan through the back streets of London at an ungodly hour. They'd ended up somewhere near the Thames. John was just on the heels of Sherlock, who was only a couple of strides behind the suspect. The Thames was to their right, and to his surprise, John saw Alan seemingly throw himself into the river. To his horror, Sherlock followed him.

Fortunately, in the dark, John wasn't able to see the small strip of land that was jutting out from under the bridge they were on. John froze for a moment as he saw the two men grappling in the moonlight, just steps away from the river.

John did the only thing he could think of, "HEY!" he shouted as loud as he could muster.

He was trying to distract Alan to give Sherlock a chance to gain the upper hand. Thankfully, it worked. Alan glanced away from Sherlock for just a second, which gave Sherlock the chance to throw a few, well-placed punches in an attempt to drop the man.

Alan fell to the ground momentarily. John took a couple of steps forward, getting within arm's reach of Alan, ready to intervene. Alan stood again and lashed out at John, this time, with a knife in his hand. He had pulled the knife from his boot.

Startled, John lost his balance momentarily, but didn't fall, giving Alan enough time to grab John and pull him into a headlock, with the knife to his throat.

It happened so fast and Sherlock didn't have any time to intervene.

Now, he stood looking white as a sheet, several steps away from the two of them with his hands outstretched in a gesture of pleading and surrender.

"No. Let him go." Sherlock stated simply.

Alan laughed. "Fat chance at that happening. I'm not an idiot. As long as I have him, you'll have to let me go because you don't want to see any harm done to your little friend."

Sherlock briefly flicked his eyes down to John's before returning them to Alan's.

"He's not part of this. This is between you and I." Sherlock continued. His voice was steady and low. _A slow burn…_ thought John.

John was surprisingly calm. He knew exactly what he was going to do to get out of this; he just needed enough of a distraction and the right timing…

"How did you know, by the way? I mean, obviously you heard the phone recording, but I mean, how did you know that it wasn't Tom? He was the last one there before me. And how did you plan on proving it to a jury?" Andy asked.

"It was the chess board, if you must know." Sherlock responded.

"Eh?"

"The chess board. It was set up incorrectly. Everyone who looked at it assumed that the players had been mid game when one was dealt a lethal blow by the other when the game went badly. They thought they were looking for a sore loser, and in a way, I supposed they were as in this story, Colin had won the girl and you didn't. But it was a set up. You were trying to set up Tom but you don't know anything about chess. John told me there were two bishops on either side of a rook. That's an impossible position."

Andy started to laugh low and maniacally. He shifted his feet and pushed the blade into John's skin a little at his throat.

Sherlock continued, "Two bishops of a single color can never be separated by a single square in a straight line. Well, I suppose it is theoretically possible for a white to promote a pawn to a second white bishop, but such a move would be colossally unlikely, particularly mid-game. A non-player set up the board, so it had to have been someone other than Tom. Pedestrian, really."

Sherlock was almost grinning at the end of his deduction, but John was getting nervous now. He grit his teeth as he felt Alan's warm breath against his neck. He took a chance to try to get away. He kicked his right leg back into Alan's shin, elbowed him in the gut, and slammed his head back, hard, to try to hit Alan in the face. The quick hits momentarily gave John the opportunity to get away, but not without a well placed cut slicing open John's injured shoulder.

Blood was seeping through his jumper in seconds and John winced as the pain receptors sent the signals to his brain, complaining about the problem.

It appeared that they were at a stale mate for a moment.

Sherlock kept frantically glancing over at John who was trying to stay upright and breathing heavily while also keeping an eye on Alan who was still armed with the knife. _Where the HELL is Lestrade? Late… as always!_ Complained Sherlock in his head.

"Tell you what." Started Alan. "I'll take you on, Holmes. Just you and me… I'll even ditch the knife." The knife clattered against the rocks as he said it. "But your little friend here has to go."

John briefly considered the odds. Though Sherlock was a skilled fighter, Alan was significantly larger than Sherlock. There was also no guarantee that Alan was armed with another knife somewhere else on his body. There was no way that he was going to let Sherlock fight Alan on his own. He immediately started shaking his head.

"No." he stated.

"John-" Sherlock started but was interrupted.

"Sherlock, no. I am not going to let you be –"

"John. GO." Sherlock was angry. Well, he appeared angry. John was confused. Why was Sherlock angry at him? Was it an act? Was it a sign? Was he supposed to deduce something form his anger?

"But Sherlock-"

"Go tell Lestrade where we are. I'll be finished here in a minute." He flashed a quick grin at John and winked.

John had obeyed. John trusted Sherlock's cockiness. To John, Sherlock was cocky because he had to have a _plan._ There was something that he knew about the situation that John didn't that meant that he had the upper hand.

Just thinking about it now made him sick.

John left and tried calling Lestrade. He saw his police car just as he had climbed back up to the main road. He waved him over and told him that Alan and Sherlock were on the bank.

"What happened to you?" Lestrade asked as they started running back towards the bank.

"Nevermind." John responded.

They got onto the embankment, but neither man was there.

"They were just here! Where could they have…"

"My God." Lestrade exclaimed. A light had been shown down into the water from the officers on the main road and allowed them to see Alan dunking and holding Sherlock under the water.

Without any thought, John was in the water and swimming out into the water towards Alan.

"John! STOP!" Lestrade called.

 _It's too long. He's been under too long._ He thought.

Just then, he heard loud gunshots from the shore. John was barely on his tip toes and he stopped swimming for a moment so he didn't get hit by a flying bullet. Thankfully, the policemen were able to take out Alan.

When Alan's grip loosened from Sherlock's body, Sherlock floated, lifeless to the surface. John could vaguely hear Lestrade berating his team to hold their fire but John didn't care.

Nothing else mattered.

He had to get Sherlock back to shore, NOW.


	10. Descent into Hell

**Author's Note: Sorry for the wait! Things are getting busy. I know it's a short**

 **chapter… There will be more to come! Stay tuned and leave a review!**

Sherlock had known the whole time standing on that shore with John that the odds were stacked against them at least until Lestrade arrived. Though the villain may not be very smart, he was significantly taller and heavier than both Sherlock and John. So he sent John away under the orders to find help.

As soon as John was out of sight, Alan attacked. Sherlock held his own for a couple minutes, dodging blows and planting punches where he could. But, eventually, Alan punched Sherlock repeatedly in the head and Sherlock lost consciousness.

Unawareness, silence, and darkness weighed on his brain. It was like he had a black hood over his head. He felt detached from his body. He lost of control over his limbs and muscles. There was no pain, though. Despite the loss of control and the anxiety of feeling lost, he was perfectly calm. He felt stuck in between two places, unaware of what either of those places were or what they meant, but it did not worry him.

He wanted home. He wanted familiarity and comfort. But the prospect of rest, of painless, blissful sleep was enticing. Perhaps he could stay here? Just for a little while… Something told him he was going to have to choose between the two places. Except, the problem was, he didn't know how to find his way to either place. It was so dark and Sherlock suddenly realized he was alone. He was caught up in nothingness. This wasn't his mind palace. This was something else. Could it even be hell?

 _None of this makes sense. Where am I? Why can't I feel anything or see? Where's John?_

Questions were racing through his head now. He had to figure out how to find John, how to find home, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, damn it, even Mycroft.

WHERE AM I?

Cold. He was feeling cold now. He could feel his body and, though it was still dark and silent, he definitely could feel his legs and arms and he was definitely cold.

He felt cold, frozen actually, for a long time. He was tired, now, too. His thoughts slowed and he tried to sleep. At least sleep wasn't oblivion and confusion and whatever the hell kind of a place he'd been stuck in. He slept for what felt like an eternity. Deep, peaceful, restf-

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? SHERLOCK!"

It was John. That voice undeniably belonged to John Watson. He had to open his eyes now. He tried, He tried yelling and reaching but nothing was working right.

John had managed to drag Sherlock's body to shore by himself, despite his bum shoulder and the icy temperature of the Thames. The EMT's were taking their time, but Sherlock didn't have time. As soon as John got him onto solid ground he started performing CPR, his medical training kicking in overdrive.

Fear gripped him. _How could I have been SO STUPID?! I knew I shouldn't have left him there. Why did I do that?_

He did his first rep of 30 and sealed his lips around Sherlock's and blew gentle, hopefully life-giving breath into Sherlock's lungs. He waited for a moment…. Nothing.

Damn.

He started again. _Where are those paramedics? If it weren't so wet, an AED might actually be useful right about now._

He sealed his lips around Sherlock's again. He realized Greg had kneeled beside Sherlock and was saying something to John about how the paramedics were going to take over in a minute once they get the stretcher down when suddenly, John heard a low groan from Sherlock.

He pulled Sherlock onto his side and a combination of water and vomit poured out from his mouth as he coughed and coughed.

Pain. Pain was registering in every muscle and tendon of his body. A pulsing throb traveled through his bones with every heart beat, and it hurt like hell. It felt like someone was recently punching him repeatedly in his chest and he wanted him or her to stop. He tried groaning as loud as he could, finally feeling some sort of connection with his body. The pounding stopped momentarily and he felt two cold, wet fingers press against his neck. Then, someone ripped open his left eyelid and flashed a light near it.

He groaned again and forced his eyes shut once more.

" _Jesus Christ."_ It was John again. "He's back. Bloody hell… Sherlock, you can't do that to me, you bastard." He sounded out of breath and a little panick-y.

Sherlock coughed again. He felt his whole body shake now. He heard John yelling and Lestrade yelling and several new people were suddenly touching him and talking and shouting and he didn't want to be a part of it so he retreated into his mind palace until it was blissfully quiet.


	11. Deal

After arriving at the hospital, John was evaluated and his shoulder was stitched up from where Alan had cut him with the knife. He had to wait in his room for what felt like hours for the doctors and nurses to do a job he could have done much faster. Hell, he HAD stitched people up far quicker when he was in Afghanistan.

His phone had been destroyed when he took a dip in the Thames, so he couldn't even text Lestrade for an update on Sherlock's condition. During the trip to the hospital, Sherlock briefly regained consciousness, but he did not speak. His vital signs were holding steady. His face had already started to bruise and swell from Alan's vicious attack. All in all, John knew that the damage he could see might not be as concerning as the damage on the inside. He needed to know that his friend was ok.

Thankfully, Lestrade seemed to read his mind and stopped in his room after John's shoulder was stitched. He walked in with his hands in his pockets, looking tired and wet from the rain.

"Well. How is he?" John asked, getting straight to the point as he pulled on his wet shirt.

"All in all, not as bad as he could be. He's got some bruising to his chest and a fractured rib, probably due to the CPR." John nodded but listened as Greg continued.

"They say he's got a mild traumatic brain injury. I've been reading up on it online – it's not as bad as it sounds, basically a concussion. But I'm sure you already know that."

"They're certainly not good though." Said John, looking displeased, "What else?"

"They're worried about pneumonia with the water and bacteria he got in his lungs from his little swim. They want to keep him for observation for a few days."

"He won't like that one bit. So he's woken up, then?" He looked down at himself and could smell the scent of the river on him. He began stripping again.

"Yeah, he's been awake for awhile. Giving everyone that walks into his room a hell of a time." Greg started pacing the room.

"With Sherlock's history, his sensory issues are going to be kicked into overdrive. I hope someone told the doctor and nurses about that."

"I've been on top of it. As had his big brother. He's already got a private room and a team of specialists who've all been reviewed and hired by Mycroft."

"Good." John was standing in just his underwear now. He looked sheepishly at Greg, "Hey, could you do me a favor? Maybe you could get me some dry clothes? There's only gowns in these cabinets and my clothes reek."

"Yeah, I can do that." He said as he turned to leave the room. "John?" he stopped, turning to face John.

"Yeah?"

"How are you?"

John furrowed his brow and laughed. "I'm fine."

Greg nodded. "Ok. I'll be back in a few with your clothes. Why don't you sit down or lie down, John? You need rest, too."

"Yeah, I'll do that." John responded, watching Greg leave the room.

John was able to get a pair of gray sweats to wear instead of his wet clothes. Greg had even gone to the store down the street to get him some toiletries to freshen up. When he was discharged, John visited Sherlock. He entered the room and found that he was curled under a blanket, knees pulled up to his chest, and pillow covering his head.

John turned off the overhead lights and turned on a lamp in the far corner of the room. He quietly sat in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs next to Sherlock's bed, and waited. He'd wait as long as he needed to. Right now, nothing was more important than seeing Sherlock awake and ok.

After a few minutes, Sherlock peeked out from under the pillow.

"Oh. Hello, John." John grinned. He could tell he was trying to sound chipper, but his voice was scratchy and low.

"Hi. How're you feeling?"

Sherlock groaned in response.

"With words, please." Insisted John.

"The light hurts me. Sounds hurt me. My chest aches. My head feels like it's going to explode."

"Have they given you anything?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply and rolled onto his back, stretching out like a cat. He sighed

dramatically saying, "Not anything that works."

John knew that due to Sherlock's previous drug use, that the doctors would be hesitant to prescribe anything that could become addictive. He knew that bringing that up wouldn't be wise, so instead, an uncomfortable silence filled the room.

Sherlock sighed just as John started to speak. "Listen," he started.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Listen, I think that the past two months have been physically and emotionally traumatizing for both of us-"

Sherlock's head turned and he fixed a glare on John.

"What is THAT supposed to mean?! I have not be trauma-"

"Just shut up and listen, would you?" John raised his voice, sternly.

Looking as though he were a scolded child, Sherlock listened.

"We've been through a lot the past couple months, is all I'm saying, and I think a lot of it could be avoided if we agree on something."

"What?"

"We can't split up anymore. You know, we're a team, you and I." He said, gesturing between them, "When we're together, we're generally able to fight off whatever baddies come our way. The second we split up though, that's when everything goes to hell. So. Sherlock. Let's promise not to split up anymore. Ever. You won't send me off on a mission to gather information by myself; I won't leave you to fend off a bad guy on your own. We're in it together. Or not at all."

"I don't do promises." Sherlock responded as he mulled over John's words for a moment. He conceded that he had a point.

John covered his face with his hand and scowled. Before he could speak, Sherlock piped up again.

"But I suppose that due to this infuriating concussion that I am prone to moments of vulnerability and sentiment. I probably won't even remember this is an hour. I promise to not split up or encourage us to split up. Your turn."

"I promise to not split up or leave you on your own again." John grinned, "Deal?"

"Deal." Sherlock rolled onto his side and pulled up the blanket.

He was going to be ok.

They were going to be ok.

The two great heroes of England: thick as thieves, as close as brothers, and best friends - Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson – they are always going to be ok as long as they stick together.


End file.
